Shattered Dreams
by Blacktrillium
Summary: Mulder finds his sister and steps into the perfect life, leaving his partner cast aside. But Scully, unwavering in her loyalty, makes her way through the maze of men and schemes, if only to reclaim her best friend...PG-13 for language.
1. A Face

_The story takes place sometime in the seventh season—_Sein Und Zeit _and_ Closure _never occurred. _The X-Files_ doesn't belong to me, of course, da da da, dee dee dee._

* * *

Chapter 1: A Face

* * *

__

_Fox Chase Subdivision _

__

_Brenda, Maryland _

__

_May 2nd _

__

_12:03 pm_

* * *

The car cruised along the streets of Brenda, Maryland, Mulder at the wheel, one hand rubbing absently at his sore shoulder. He stole a glance at the silent Scully. She was staring out of the window, lips pursed, her brow creased in a frown. He sighed.

"You're not still mad at me, are you, Scully?" he asked.

"Well, Mulder, you dragged me out of bed at 3am on a Saturday to investigate a wonderful, mundane, very much _not_ X-Files case. Next time you hear something about a ghost from a three-year-old, _please_ leave me out of it," Scully answered out of the corner of her mouth.

"I really thought she knew something," Mulder protested. "Besides, it's not like I came out of it unscathed." He continued massaging his shoulder. "See? I already got punished. So forgive me? Please?"

Scully rolled her eyes, knowing very well that he would do it again in a heartbeat. Nevertheless, she gave her head a curt nod, allowing a faint smile to settle on the corners of her lips.

"Well, now that that's done with," Mulder said. Grinning, he floored the accelerator. The car shot forward in an enormous burst of speed.

"Whoa!" Scully exclaimed, her body pressed hard against the seat. "What the hell was that for, Mulder?"

"Always wanted to do that," he said, slowing down. He looked at Scully and gave her an innocent smile.

Scully sighed. 'It's been a long day. Let's just go home, okay?"

They settled into a comfortable silence, Mulder concentrating on the road, Scully watching the houses fly by. She caught a glimpse of a mother out in the yard, tossing a ball back and forth with her son. She felt the familiar tug at her heart. _I wish._

Suddenly Mulder sucked in a sharp breath. The car lurched to a stop and swerved around, tires screeching, heading back the way they had come.

Scully sat up and fixed a stare on the side of Mulder's face. "Mulder, what are you doing? It's not funny."

He didn't answer. He let the car roll to a stop in front of a beautiful brick house, a couple of blocks back. A woman sat on the porch steps, a kitten cradled in her arms. Her curly brown hair framed her pale face, hazel eyes looking out into the sunlight. Mulder's breath quickened. His hands clenched the steering wheel, so hard his knuckles were white.

"Mulder?"

Mulder turned to her, his eyes wild. His breath came in gasps, and he wore an expression of a mixture of fear and hope.

"Mulder?"

"Samantha," he breathed.

"What?" Scully looked past him at the house, seeing no one. "What are you talking about?"

Mulder tripped out of the car and dashed to the porch. He stopped and stood there, confused. He turned in a circle, eyes searching. But there was no one, no woman with a gray kitten, no one at all.

"Mulder," Scully called, stepping out. "What happened? What did you see?"

Mulder's shoulders slumped. He trudged back to the car, not looking at his partner. He rested his forehead on the wheel and closed his eyes.

"Mulder?" Scully asked, shutting the passenger door. She gently laid a hand on Mulder's arm. "Mulder, talk to me."

Mulder raised his head and looked at her. Scully blinked, taken aback by the pain she saw in his face, the hopelessness that filled his eyes.

"I saw her, Scully," he whispered, trying to convince her as much as himself. "I did."

Scully didn't know what to say. "Mulder—"

"I saw her, Scully! I really did! She was there," he jabbed a finger in the direction of the house. "She was right there, with a kitten in her lap. I swear, Scully, she was right there. Right there…" his voice broke, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

Scully reached up and gently brushed the tear away. "Look, Mulder, let's talk about this later, okay? I'm going to drive you home, and I'll just catch a cab back to Georgetown. Okay? Come on." She got out of the car and went to the driver's side. "Come on, Mulder. You're exhausted. I'll make you some tea before I leave."

* * *

A/N: _Ahhh, finally. A fic I got around to posting. I hope I finish this one…:-/. Review, please!! Tell me how I'm doing. Do you want more? Should I stop now before I make a fool of myself?_


	2. An Idiot Calls

Chapter 2: An Idiot Calls

* * *

_Mulder's apartment _

__

_May 2nd_

_9:20pm_

* * *

Mulder lay on the couch, hands folded on his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. A now cold cup of tea sat on the coffee table, untouched.

_She was there,_ he thought. _I didn't imagine it. I couldn't have._

He remembered the dream he had had when the Smoking Man took him six months ago. There was something familiar about those streets in Brenda, like he had been there before, countless times, driving with kids screaming in the backseat. And the house. The brick house. What if the dream had some grain of truth?

The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. He got up, groaning.

"Mulder," he answered.

Langly's cheery voice sounded from the receiver. "Hey Mulder, we need you to come wave your AK-47 around at some dude with the ungainly name of 'LeFleur', or French for 'the flower.' Heh heh. Anyway, come on, _Wolfenstein_ isn't the same without you."

"Look, Langly," Mulder began. "I—"

"Alright. See you. Oh, and Frohike says bring Scully."

_Click._

Mulder took a deep breath. Maybe this would be good for him. A late night online with the Lone Gunmen might be just what he needed to get his mind off his sister.

He glanced at the clock. 9:30. His favorite Mexican restaurant was still open. He'd stop by and pick up some tacos. He grabbed his jacket, eyes roaming over his messy apartment. _Someday I'll get around to cleaning it. Or maybe if I ask really nicely, Scully'll do it for me. _He smiled inwardly. _Yeah right._

* * *

_Lone Gunmen residence _

_May 2nd_

_10:12pm_

* * *

Mulder stood in front of the Lone Gunmen's door, shoulders stooped, not wanting to crack his skull on the uneven ceiling. He clutched his jacket in one hand and the bag of tacos in the other.

He waited while the numerous locks and bolts were unlocked and slid back. The door opened a crack to reveal Frohike's stubbly face.

"We were beginning to think that you weren't coming," Frohike said before letting Mulder in.

"Yeah, well, I'm here now, aren't I?" Mulder threw his jacket somewhere in the dark room. "And I brought some tacos. With all the trimmings."

Frohike gave him a surly look. "No, _not _with all the trimmings. Where's Scully?"

Mulder chuckled. "She's already pissed at me for getting her up kinda early this morning. Don't want her _really _pissed."

"Yeah, 'cause he's whipped," commented Langly from his seat in front of the laptop.

There was a bit of amused silence.

"Anyway," Mulder said, rubbing his hands together. "I'm ready to kick this guy's ass." What's his name again?"

"The Flower," Byers said dryly, keeping a straight face.

"Ahh. The Flower, here comes the mighty Luke Skywalker. I am going to kick your ass."

* * *

_Lone Gunmen Residence_

_May 3rd _

_2:04am_

* * *

"Ahhhhh," Mulder said, leaning back in his chair. "The Allied Grays have won, once again." He smiled with satisfaction.

"So has insomnia, apparently," Byers said from the direction of the couch.

"Ah, shut up, Byers. Nobody likes a party pooper," Frohike retorted. He rubbed his eyes. "The Flower my ass. Heh heh heh. That was one hell of a game."

"And I, Lord Manhammer, is now 7th in the nation," Langly said smugly.

"Shut up, Langly. You weren't even smart enough to pick a name other than a role out of _Dungeons and Dragons_," Frohike said.

"Shut up yourself, you short-faced swot. You were the only one who got creamed by the Axis. Yeah. By The Flower. While you were guarding a castle. With all those walls around you."

"Yeah, well, you know what? That was only because I had to save yoursorry ass from falling over those damn walls!"

"I was _not _about to fall over those damn—"

Their banter was interrupted by a _bring _from the laptop.

"Instant message? At two in the morning? Man, you guys must be popular," Mulder said.

"Huh. From 'LeFleur.' How the hell did he get our screen names?" Langly wondered.

"Accept it already," Frohike grumbled.

"Yeah yeah yeah."

Langly's eyes moved back and forth. Frohike watched his expression turn from an indignant scowl to a puzzled frown.

"What?" he asked.

"Uh, Mulder, I think it's for you."

Mulder blinked. He leaned over Langly's shoulder and peered at the screen.

Life is a war, Agent Mulder. And you are about to win the biggest battle you will ever face. I know where she is, Mulder. Your sister. I will meet you tomorrow at the diamond at Rock Creek Park. Midnight. Imagine the spoils of this battle. Imagine all you will hold in your hands.

"What the hell?" Frohike said.

Mulder read and reread the message, not believing his eyes.

Byers got up from the couch and came over. "Jesus, Mulder," he said after scanning the message. "It's probably nothing. Some idiot wanting revenge."

Mulder shook his head. The words rushed from his mouth in a torrent. "No, no. There's something here. I know it. I saw her today. I did. I did. I've got to go." He jumped off his chair and hurried to the door. The metal barricade clanged loudly, and the Gunmen heard his footsteps resounding down the stairs. A car door slammed, followed by the screech of tires.

"Well," Langly said.

"Yeah," Frohike replied.

"He left his jacket," Byers said matter-of-factly, holding up the wrinkled garment.

* * *

A/N: _Well, I hoped you liked this one…Wolfenstein is an online first person shooter game, set in World War II. I don't know much about it except that you fight either with the Allies or the Axis, completing objectives in each level. A friend of mine got 4oth in the nation, and I thought that it might be something the LGM occupy themselves with besides spinning conspiracy theories. Anyhoo, please review!! :-) _


	3. Samantha

Chapter 3: Samantha

* * *

_Rock Creek Park_

_May 3rd_

_11:52pm_

* * *

The night was clear and still. Stars blanketed the night sky, twinkling down on the lone figure pacing in the middle of the empty ballpark. Mulder was deep in thought, hands inside his pockets. Beads of sweat gathered under his hairline, glistening in the dim glow of the lamps.

_What is this?_ he asked himself. _Why am I here? Doing this again? After all I've seen, all the lies, why do I still believe?_

His gaze swept across the field, pausing by home plate. He remembered last year when he had invited Scully out here. How they had batted late into the night, bodies wrapped together. Scully was truly Scully then—her professional exterior had melted away in his arms. _What would she say now?_ he wondered. _Would she think this foolish?_

The grass rustled behind him. Mulder turned around, staring into the shadows. Someone stepped out from the darkness and stopped at the edge of the diamond, silhouetted by the streetlight.

Mulder squared his shoulders and walked slowly toward the silhouette. When he got closer, he saw that it was man, his head bowed, blond hair slightly mussed.

Mulder paused a few feet away from him. He waited.

"Agent Mulder," the man stated simply, after a moment. He looked at Mulder. His face was hidden; his blue eyes shone like beacons.

Mulder remained silent, his face expressionless.

"I assume you've received my message." The man's speech was clear, every word enunciated. "Nice strategy last night, by the way."

Mulder frowned.

"Although you would've done better if you'd skirted the fort outside Morocco."

Mulder bristled. "I did not come here to hear you preach to me about the finer points of _Wolfenstein_. Cut the crap, LeFleur."

The man chuckled. "Casey Whitfield, Agent Mulder."

"What do you know about me? About my sister?" Mulder asked fiercely, unable to stomach the chitchat.

"I know everything about you. And your sister. I know where she is." He paused, waiting for Mulder's reaction.

"I'll bet you do. My life must be a book for so many people to know everything about me. What makes you so different, _Casey_?" Mulder grated, scowling.

"I can take you to her, Agent Mulder," Casey said with a trace of a smile.

Mulder's heart began to beat rapidly. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"That's not important. What's important is that I can reunite you with your sister. I can give you something you will search for forever but never find."

"You're a liar."

"Am I, Agent Mulder?" He paused. "Then what are you doing here?"

Mulder couldn't think of anything to say.

"See?" Casey chuckled. "You can see her tomorrow. Meet me at the Georgetown Inn tomorrow morning at eight." He turned to leave.

Mulder made to follow him, but changed his mind. Instead he called out, "Why not tonight?"

Casey looked over his shoulder. "She's asleep. It's past midnight."

Mulder watched him go. The shadows melted together, and soon Mulder couldn't tell where Casey ended and the trees began. He blew a loud breath into the warm night air and walked back to his car.

* * *

_En route to Chinatown_

_Washington, D.C._

_May 4th_

_12.24am_

* * *

Casey Whitfield drove along Connecticut Avenue, listening to the soft rock from his CD player. _At least I'm not like him…_

His thoughts trailed off as he noticed a black sedan tailing him unashamedly.

"Can't trust me, huh?" he muttered. "Why doesn't he just do these things himself?"

* * *

_Ming's Teahouse_

_Chinatown, Washington, D.C._

_May 4th_

_12:30am_

* * *

Casey strolled in the small building and nodded to the old man behind the counter. Ming's was the only place in Chinatown open this late. The place smelled like stale tea and herbs. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, and several oriental screens had cracks running down their lengths.

He headed toward the table in the far corner, partly hidden by a pot of bamboo. A woman with long brown hair sat staring into space, sipping a cup of tea. She looked up and spotted him.

Casey sat down. "Well, he came. He'll show up tomorrow."

The woman nodded. "Alright. I'll see you."

"Sure."

The woman stood up and maneuvered her way between Casey and the giant flowerpot. As she neared the door, she exchanged a glance with the man hidden behind an oriental screen. Back at the table, Casey closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Well, it looks like we'll have a new addition to the family," a voice said hoarsely behind him.

Casey turned, only to be bombarded by a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"Why did you follow me?" he asked angrily.

"To make sure you didn't do something stupid," the Cigarette-Smoking-Man answered.

Casey shook his head. "Why didn't you just go yourself?"

"Mulder doesn't trust me. He'll trust you. You've got an honest face."

Casey curled his lips petulantly. He stood up and pushed past the Smoking Man.

"Be careful, Casey. Don't be a fool," the Cigarette-Smoking-Man warned to Casey's retreating back.

* * *

_FBI Headquarters_

_Washington, D.C._

_May 4th_

_7:54am_

* * *

Dana Scully sat in her chair, skimming through a case file. She had a look of profound irritation on her face. Mulder was even later than usual. Skinner wanted them in his office in six minutes. She was going to chew him out when he comes in.

_Riiinng_

Scully looked at the phone. She looked at the clock. Her frown deepened. She slapped the folder down on the desk and yanked the phone out of its cradle.

"Scully."

"Hey, Scully, it's me."

So she could chew him out earlier than she thought. "Mulder, where the hell are you? Skinner wants to see us, and if you don't get your butt down here right now, I am not going to cover for you."

There was silence on the other end.

"Mulder," Scully growled.

She heard him sigh. "Scully, I'm sorry, but something came up. I need to go. I'll call you as soon as I can."

"Mul—" Mulder had hung up.

Scully slammed down the phone. "Damn you, Mulder. I hope you get in a wreck."

* * *

_Georgetown Inn_

_Georgetown, Maryland_

_May 4th_

_7:57am_

* * *

Mulder stood hunched in the morning sunshine, oblivious to the people hurrying past him in and out of the inn. He felt bad about not telling Scully where he was going—she had always been there for him. But this was something he needed to figure out by himself. Scully would only hold him back.

A gold Camry pulled up to the curb. A blond man sat behind the wheel, staring ahead.

Mulder hesitated for only a second. He stepped into the road and got in from the passenger side. The car dove smoothly into traffic before Mulder had a chance to put on his seatbelt.

"Will you slow down?" Mulder said after a few minutes.

"I thought you liked speed," Casey answered. He finally turned to look at his passenger. Mulder saw that Casey was a handsome man, his face chiseled, his nose straight. A day's worth of stubble gave him a rugged look. His piercing blue eyes reminded Mulder of Scully's. At the thought of Scully, he felt a pang of guilt.

As if reading his thoughts, Casey said, "Don't worry, you're not being taken away and isolated. You can call your partner if you like."

Mulder scoffed. "Why do you care?"

"To ensure your happiness," Casey answered.

Neither spoke after that. Twenty minutes later, the car turned onto Highway 112 and entered Brenda, Maryland.

As they passed the sign welcoming visitors to the town, Mulder spoke up, surprised. "We were here Saturday."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes really, Mr. Whitfield. Now what are we doing here?"

Casey didn't answer. He drove through Fox Chase, one of the richest and most picturesque neighborhoods in Maryland. Giant oaks lined the streets; elegant two- or three-story mansions with beautiful gardens stool behind them. Casey turned onto Marilyn Drive, and when he reached the brick house with the polished wooden porch, he slowed and followed the circular driveway.

Mulder stared at the two-story house, his mouth open. It was the same house, the one where he thought he saw his sister. He shook his head to clear away the confusion. He looked at Casey.

"What?" Casey asked.

"I—I was here, Saturday…"

Casey smiled. "Ah, the powers of fate. Come on, Agent Mulder, your sister's waiting inside."

Mulder's heart hammered in his chest, his stomach twisted in knots. They walked down the cobblestone path and up onto the porch. Casey went up to the heavy oak door, lifted the ornate brass knocker, and let it drop. Soft footsteps approached the door. Mulder closed his eyes.

The door opened. "Hey, Casey," a female voice said. "What are you…" the voice trailed off when she noticed Mulder standing behind Casey. Casey stepped aside.

Mulder heard the voice, and his heart missed a beat. In the silence that followed, he opened his eyes.

The woman he saw on the porch two days ago stood before him, face illuminated by the sunlight; the expression in her hazel eyes mirrored his own.

They stared at each other. A second passed. Then another.

"Fox?" the woman asked in a barely audible whisper.

Mulder smiled faintly. "Samantha," he said as he gathered his sister in his arms. "Oh, Samantha…"

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive _

__

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 4th_

* * *

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man watched the reunion from the window. Smoke billowed about his head.

The woman from Ming's stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind her.

"She's ready," she said.

"Thank you, Diana," he answered.

They left the room together and climbed the stairs leading to the attic. Dust motes hung suspended in the shafts of sunlight that cut across their path. Diana Fowley stared at them thoughtfully before reaching inside a pocket and pulling out a key. She unlocked the attic door and the two of them stepped inside.

Instead of a dark, musty room filled with trunks and boxes, they were in an immaculate, shiny, white medical bay. A raised bed stood in the middle. Doctors monitored the body that lay still on the sheets, checking the readings from several machines that fanned out from the bed. They fiddled with syringes, as if itching to plunge the needles into the patient's flesh.

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man approached the bed, while Diana remained by the door. He stared down at the pale face, the high cheekbones, the ash blond, almost gray hair.

"Almost there, Cassandra," he murmured. "Almost there."

* * *

A/N: _Feedback? Please? Pretty please? _


	4. Lost Time

_Sorry for the delay. Had to work on Russia project…:-/_

* * *

Chapter 4: Lost Time

* * *

_106 Marilyn Drive_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 4th_

_9:01am_

* * *

Mulder sipped on a cup of coffee, watching his sister over the rim. They were in the large kitchen, seated across from each other at the breakfast table. The huge bay windows looked out over Seneca Creek, letting in the bright May sunshine. Plants adorned the sills, the floors, and the counters, their blooms casting pleasant scents over the room.

Samantha Mulder held her mug tightly, eyes following its swirling contents.

"To think that you've been here," Mulder whispered, "twenty minutes away from me for all these years…"

Samantha smiled a little. She waited for the questions.

"What happened?" Mulder asked finally.

Samantha looked up and met Mulder's eyes. "They took me, twenty-seven years ago. I think we were in California at first. I don't remember much about those days, except for the tests…"

Mulder looked angry. "Tests? What did they do to you, Samantha?" he demanded.

"Fox, it's okay," Samantha said, a little taken aback by Mulder's murderous tone. "I'm fine."

They were silent for a few moments. Then Samantha said hesitantly, "I think they were trying to help people."

"Help people?"

"Yes. I heard things about saving mankind. The tests hurt, sometimes so much that I thought I couldn't take any more. But then I kept telling myself that the world would be a safer and happier place because of them. They were good people, Fox; they took good care of me."

"Samantha, they were _not _good people. They were bent on saving only themselves," Mulder said. "I think the tests were to hurt people, not help them."

Now it was Samantha's turn to look angry. "No, Fox, you're wrong. They're only trying to help. I don't know why you would think that their intentions are anything but honorable," she said defensively.

Confusion crept across Mulder's face. Here was his sister, taken from him almost thirty years ago, admonishing him for the beliefs that he had lived by for half of his life. Had he been wrong? All those years, had he been wrong?

Samantha's expression softened. "Oh, Fox, I'm sorry. It's just that Casey's uncle is so different from Dad. He really cared about me, and doted on me. He bought this house when I was fifteen, and he promised me that once the tests were done, the house would be mine."

"Casey's uncle?"

"Yes. He was like a father to me…Casey and I met after I moved here…"

Mulder listened to the lilts of her voice. He lost track of her words; he strained only to catch the patterns in the sound. His sister, alive and well, telling him stories. It was a miracle.

"Fox?"

Mulder blinked. "What?"

Samantha smiled. "I thought I'd lost you—"

"You will never lose me again, Samantha," Mulder broke in. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

_10:50pm_

_

* * *

_

The house was silent. Moonlight played across the ceiling as Mulder snuggled deeper into the covers. For once he felt comfortable sleeping in a bed—a bed in his sister's house.

They'd spent the day catching up, their conversation broken by intervals of warm silence. Samantha had been living in Brenda since 1993, after her graduation from UCLA. Mulder was continuously appalled throughout the day that his lost sister had been so close to him for seven long years. They had not dwelled long on the medical tests, mainly because Samantha assured him that they were not so bad, that she was fine, and Mulder couldn't dispute that, as she was very much a healthy woman.

Mulder smiled into the pillow. Now that everything was resolved, he couldn't wait to tell Scully. He knew Scully would like his sister, and vice versa, and they would all be one big happy family. He sighed contentedly.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Mulder woke to find a woman standing in the doorway. She was so beautiful—in the moonlight she looked like an angel. Her silky brown hair framed her face, and as Mulder's eyes traveled down her body, he saw that she was wearing a low-cut, very provocative satin nightgown. The woman padded softly over to the bed and sat down. She gently touched Mulder's cheek.

"Hi, Fox," she whispered.

"Diana," Mulder whispered back, feeling a stir in his groin.

Diana took one of Mulder's hands in both of hers and drew circles on his palm.

"What are you doing here?" Mulder asked.

Diana shrugged. "To be with you."

Mulder was pleasantly surprised. Over the years, contact with his former partner had been minimal, and when they did see each other, it was under dangerous circumstances. This was something he did not expect.

Diana continued caressing his hand. She looked out of the window at the moonlit creek. "I love you, Fox. I've loved you for so long. Too long." Her voice was silky, alluring, hypnotic.

Mulder blushed, glad for the darkness. For a moment he felt disoriented. Him, blushing? Something was wrong. But his doubts melted away as Diana leaned down and kissed him on the lips. His heart fluttered deliciously. He smiled into her mouth and returned the kiss, deepening it, his tongue probing passionately.

As they parted for breath, Diana looked him in the eye. "I am yours, and you are mine."

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive _

__

_Brenda, Maryland_

* * *

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man watched it all from his the basement across the street. He smiled with satisfaction. Everything was going as planned. He could taste the victory. He allowed himself a moment to indulge in the genius of his plans. _Soon. Very soon._

* * *

_106 Marilyn Drive _

__

_Brenda, Maryland _

__

_May 5th _

_6:30am_

* * *

Mulder left Diana sleeping peacefully, curled up on her side. He walked downstairs and into the kitchen, wearing only boxers. Something in the back of his mind had prompted him to leave the warmth of his bed and the comfort of Diana's arms. Even though his life, his mission, had changed in the past day, and the past night—he smiled at the thought—he still had a job, he still had a partner, he still had his apartment in Alexandria with the overdue rent and the tapes that weren't his. He set about making coffee and some semblance of breakfast.

"Fox?" Samantha said from behind him.

Mulder turned around. He flashed a bright morning smile. "Good morning, little sis."

"What are you doing?" she asked as she walked over to him.

"Getting ready for work," he replied.

Samantha sighed loudly. Mulder looked at her, puzzled. She led him to the breakfast table and they both sat down.

"What?" Mulder asked. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, of course not."

"Well, then, I need to get to work." He began to get up.

Samantha clutched at his wrist and pulled him back down. "Fox. Fox, no. No."

"No what?" Mulder was very confused.

"Fox, it's over now. It's all over. You don't have to put yourself through any of this anymore. You've found me, you've found love, you've found family. What else could you possibly want?"

"But Sam—"

She cut him off. "I'm just afraid that if you go back, you'll be reminded of the pain, open old wounds…I don't want anything to taint the happiness you've sought for for so long. Stay here, Fox; forget about your old life. Start a new one, with your family, with people who love you."

Understanding dawned. "I know what you're saying, Samantha, but what about Scully, what about my quest for the truth? I can't just leave it all behind. Just like that."

"There has never been a quest," Diana said from the bottom of the stairs. She came to the table and sat down. She took Mulder's hand. "Fox, you've been hurting for so long, so much, you've forgotten what it's like to be truly happy. Your quest was just an illusion to help you through it all, and eventually became an ill-begotten obsession. _This _is the truth, Fox. Your sister is fine. Your 'quest' prevented you from knowing that sooner. Do you really want to go back? Go back to the confusion and the darkness?"

Mulder shook his head. He felt strange. But what they said made sense…didn't it?

"All these years you've been looking in the wrong place, Fox," Diana continued. "Answers are found in _this _life, _this_ reality, not in the heavens, not up there."

"And not in the heart," Samantha added. "_This _is what's real. So stay with us, Fox, if not for yourself, or for Diana, then for me. I need you here. I've missed you so much." She looked at her brother beseechingly.

Mulder was convinced. "Okay. Okay. I'm ready. I'm ready to start over."

_

* * *

_

_A/N: Okay, that's that. What do you think? _

_P.S. Thanks for the reviews! :-D They've inspired me to go on. :-)_


	5. Questions

Chapter 5: Questions

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive_

_May 5th_

_11:30am_

* * *

Casey shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The basement was lit by a single window, which, hidden behind the rose bush outside, did not let in much light. He coughed, choking on the rank smell of cigarette smoke that permeated the room. He stretched his legs out in front of him and reached up to rub his scalp. He blew out his cheeks, leaned forward, and twiddled his thumbs. His foot made a tap-tap against the wooden floor.

"Will you stop fidgeting?" the Cigarette-Smoking-Man complained irritably from across the room. He lit another cigarette, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

Casey sighed impatiently. "Why do you want to watch them?" he asked for the hundredth time. "What's so interesting about them talking about babies?"

"To make sure Mulder settles in," the Smoking Man answered, also for the hundredth time.

"Well, isn't that pretty obvious? What else do you need to see? Jesus. For twelve hours, we've been here. Twelve hours! I have a job, Uncle, a little something you might not be acquainted with. You know, a j-o-b—"

"Shut up!" the Smoking Man said sharply.

Casey swallowed his words. He rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

"I get the feeling you're not telling me something here," he said after a minute.

The Smoking Man raised his eyebrows.

Casey continued. "I mean, why go to all of this, all this trouble, the setup with the _Wolfenstein _game and the meeting at the ballpark, the lesson on how to speak evilly, just to get Mulder to reunite with Sammi? Why not just tell him, like normal people?"

The Smoking Man blew smoke into the air, taking another puff before he answered. "Some things are not for you to know," he said gravely.

Casey barked a short laugh. "Like what? What's the big deal? Is there a conspiracy here, a scheme? Something that you know I wouldn't want to be a part of?"

"Don't push it, Casey," the Cigarette-Smoking-Man replied, a note of impending doom creeping into his voice.

Casey stood up abruptly and stomped to the stairs. "Damn it, Uncle, I get it. You're the ominous guy. Good for you. I'm going home." His shoes clomped loudly on the stairs.

"So he'll betray me," the Smoking Man said to the computer screen. "Another dead seed. I will do without him."

_

* * *

_

_FBI Headquarters_

_Washington, D.C._

_May 5th _

_1:01pm_

* * *

Scully was beside herself with worry. She stood in the middle of the cluttered office, turning in circles. Mulder hadn't called since yesterday morning. He wasn't home, his cell was turned off, and his car was gone.

"What the hell is going on?" she said out loud. "Where the hell are you?"

Skinner had been pissed, but not especially surprised, when she had shown up at the meeting without Mulder. He had handed her a case about some crackpot who decided that he could enter the fourth dimension. _Ha. The fourth dimension_, she had thought to herself when she read the file. Her biggest worry then was how to convince Mulder not to believe the guy and drag her across half the country looking for the "door."

But now, Mulder was gone. Left without telling her where.

"Jesus, Mulder," she said. "You've got to quit ditching me."

She turned in a circle one last time, then grabbed her jacket and headed out the door. She would go talk to Skinner. If he won't help, then she would go see the Lone Gunmen.

_

* * *

_

_Skinner's office_

_May 5th _

_1:08pm_

* * *

Scully hurried into the outer office, bumping into two male agents on the way in. They leered at her as they left. She rolled her eyes.

"Agent Scully," the secretary said. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, uh, I need to speak with the assistant director."

"Sure. Let me tell him."

Moments later, Scully was in Skinner's office, talking a mile a minute.

"…He called me yesterday and said he had to be somewhere, that he'd call me back. But he hasn't. He's not home, his car's gone, I can't reach him, I'm not going on the case by myself, and God knows what he's gotten himself into this time." Scully paused, out of breath.

"Agent Scully, I'm sure Agent Mulder is fine. Just because he hasn't contacted you in a day doesn't mean that he's in trouble," Skinner reasoned.

"But what if he is? What if he's lying somewhere hurt, waiting for somebody to find him?" Scully protested.

Skinner sighed. "Well, was he upset when he called you?"

Scully looked at the floor, a little embarrassed. "I was too angry to notice," she said quietly.

"Look, Scully, I'm sure he's fine. Just give it a day or two, and he'll just saunter in the door like he'd never been gone. Don't stress yourself out when nothing's wrong."

Scully threw her hands up in frustration. "Well, in a another day, we might be too late. And with all due respect sir, I think you're wrong. I'm going to go find him." With that, she spun around and left the office, slamming the door behind her.

_

* * *

_

_Lone Gunmen Residence_

_1:42pm_

* * *

"Aaaaah!" Langly exclaimed. His nose was about an inch from the laptop screen. "Unbelievable!!!"

"What?" Frohike groaned from the kitchenette. He was making scrambled eggs.

"My city!! Unbelievable! Ten hours, people, ten hours! And it just collapsed 'cause I forgot to replace the faulty wire in the power plant. Damn it!"

Byers rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Langly, it's just a game. You can always start over."

"No, you don't understand. This is _Starcraft_. The name 'Lord Manhammer' will be ridiculed for the rest of my life!"

"It's already ridiculed," Frohike said, digging in the fridge for some hamburger.

Before Langly could retort, the door buzzed. Frohike hurried to the door and saw Scully standing outside anxiously. He unlocked the door and let her in.

"To what do we owe this pleasure, Agent Scully?" Byers asked courteously.

"Mulder's gone," Scully said.

Langly looked away from the laptop. "What do you mean, Mulder's gone?"

"Just that. Gone. He called me yesterday to say that something came up, and now I can't find him."

Frohike stepped forward and looked up at her. "Scully, he probably went frolicking with some chick. He'll be back. Want some eggs?"

Scully whirled on him. "Frolicking? Mulder would call to tell me that he's gone _frolicking_?"

"Okay, maybe not frolicking."

"Look, guys, do you know where he might have gone or don't you?" she asked.

Byers fidgeted. Langly bit his lip. Frohike looked away.

"What?"

"Well, uh, Saturday night he was over here, and, uh, there was an instant message…" Byers said finally.

"Instant message? Can you find it?"

"Yeah," Langly said, glad to have something to do. "Here," he gestured after a moment.

Scully hurried over and squinted at the laptop. Her brow knitted in a frown. "Do you know who this is from?"

"LeFleur," Frohike said. Scully cocked an eyebrow. "It's a screen name from _Wolfenstein_," he explained.

"LeFleur, LeFleur," Scully mumbled to herself. "That's a name."

"Yeah," Byers said. "French. 'The Flower'."

"No, no, it's a Cajun surname…LeFleur…I want you to do a search on all the LeFleurs in the D.C. area, okay?"

"I'm on it," Langly said. He began pounding at the keyboard. A second later, he sat back. "Got it. Only two."

"Dominique LeFleur Whitfield," Scully read from the screen. "Disappeared in 1973 and was never found. Dead husband. One son. A Casey Whitfield…1973…that's the year Mulder's sister was abducted."

"You think there's a connection?" Byers asked.

"I don't know, but I'm going to go talk to him, in case he knows something…Get me his background, will you?" Scully said.

"No problem."

_

* * *

_

_311 Green Oak Lane_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 5th _

_2:39pm_

* * *

Scully stood in the shade of a green oak, waiting for someone to answer the door. It wasn't like her to chase down such an insubstantial clue, but when Mulder was concerned, she would do anything. She peered around the trees and the bushes, looking for signs of life. A gold Camry sat in the driveway, and a lawn mower teetered precariously on top of the garden hose. She stepped over to the front window and looked inside.

"Wow. Wonder who cleans?" Scully murmured. The interior was spotless—it could be on the cover of _Good Housekeeping_.

The door opened. "Yes?"

Scully turned and saw a tall, handsome man, dressed in jeans and a muscle shirt. He looked about 35. "Casey Whitfield?"

"Yes?" Casey said, struggling to look nonchalant. _How did she find me?_

"Hi," Scully said, smiling. "Um, I'm looking for Fox Mulder?"

Casey's heart did a flip. His uncle will bury him alive if he found out that he had screwed up. "Uh, I don't know a Fox Mulder," he said.

Scully wasn't fooled. She had seen the flicker of fear in the man's eyes. "Well, okay. Thanks for your time." She reached out and shook Casey's hand.

"Who are you?" Casey asked, attempting to sound genuinely interested.

"Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI."

"FBI? Oh. Um, I work for the radio station," Casey fumbled for words, trying to salvage some information.

Scully nodded. "I know."

"Okay. Um…"

Scully resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She reached inside her coat pocket and produced a business card. She handed it to him. "If you hear anything, please feel free to call."

"Okay."

Scully got back in her car and drove down the block. She made a U-turn and parked on the side of the street, keeping Casey's house in sight. She settled in to wait. The man knew something. Something about Mulder and where he had gone.

_

* * *

_

_9:45pm_

* * *

Casey stepped out into the night, his heart pounding. He wasn't sure he could act cool with his uncle when he knew he'd messed up. _Damn it, _he thought. _Damn it. _He got in his Camry, backed out of the driveway, and drove down the street toward Fox Chase. He did not notice the blue Nissan start up behind him.

Scully was tired, bored, and hungry. For eight hours she had waited in the car. Finally, a little before ten, she saw Casey come out of the house and drive off. She followed him, her lights off, making sure that she kept a safe distance. The Camry threaded through the quiet residential streets, running all the stop signs, going twice the speed limit. Ten minutes later, it parked on the curb in front of a dark house. Scully stopped around the corner, watching. Casey get out of the car and unlock the front door. He looked over his shoulder at the house across the street.

When the door clicked shut, Scully left the car and crept up the street to the house. The front door was locked, as were the windows and the gate into the backyard. She took out a flashlight and searched around the front, pausing at one point to stare at the house across the street. A light was on on the second floor, filtering through the thin curtains. She saw two shadows—two bodies—entwined together. She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the silent house.

She was on the verge of giving up when she noticed a faint glow coming from behind the rose bush. Ignoring the thorns, she pushed against the bush until she saw the tiny window of the basement. Carefully, she put her forehead against the dirty glass and peered inside. Two people were arguing in the dark room, the light from a computer reflecting off their faces. Her breath caught in her throat when she recognized the second man.

"C.G.B. Spender."

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive_

_May 5th _

_10:12pm_

* * *

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man looked startled when Casey came into the basement. His surprise turned quickly into hostility.

"Why did you come?" he rasped.

"Thought you might like some company," Casey answered, a little over-enthusiastic.

The Smoking Man, too, saw through the façade. His lips curled into a small smile. "Is there something you would like to tell me?"

Casey squirmed under his uncle's gaze. "Uh, no. Unless you'd like to hear about what happened today on _The Bold and the Beautiful_."

The Smoking Man gave a mirthless chuckle. He returned to his endless surveillance.

Mulder moaned loudly from the computer. Casey took one look and blushed furiously.

"Why are you watching them have sex?" he asked angrily, trying to cover his embarrassment. "Is this how you get 'laid'?"

"All humans are capable of betrayal," The Smoking Man said without turning around.

"It's a violation of Constitutional rights!"

"Sue me."

Casey fell silent. As far as he knew, his uncle had the entire system wrapped around his little finger. The drone of the computer monitor filled the room.

"We could go to jail for this," Casey said, uncomfortable in the silence.

"Not if no one finds out," the Smoking Man said slyly.

"Well, what if someone did?"

"They won't."

"But what _if_? What if the FBI found out or something?"

The Smoking Man looked at his nephew. "Now how would the FBI find out?"

"Uh…I dunno. Spies and stuff. These intelligence people have plants everywhere nowadays, you know. Maybe Diana is a plant."

"Maybe _you'_rea plant."

"Oh, no, Uncle, I'm not a plant. Do I look like plant material to you?"

"You don't look like much of anything."

"Uncle, come on, I would never betray you."

At that moment, the sound of a car coming up the driveway reverberated through the room. Casey turned to the window in surprise and listened intently as the engine shut off and footsteps thudded to the door.

"I…I—ubb" he gulped.

The Smoking Man's eyes glittered in the darkness. "Are you sure?"

* * *

Scully heard the car coming down the street. She crouched instinctively behind the bush, concealing herself in the shadows. A black sedan entered the driveway. A tall, well-dressed man stepped out of the car, his white hair iridescent in the night. Surely and confidently, the man walked to the door and disappeared inside.

Scully pressed her face close to the window. A few seconds later, the man appeared in the basement. Scully gasped in surprise.

"What the hell?"

* * *

Casey was speechless. He was petrified. Scully had followed him. His uncle would know that it was him who had led her to them. He had been told to keep this a secret, to protect Mulder and Samantha. He'd failed. He was a failure—in his father's eyes, and now, in his uncle's as well.

"How is she?" a deep-throated voice sounded from the foot of the stairs.

Casey jumped. He turned around and saw a tall, wily man in his sixties, shoulders squared, every white hair in place, a look of inhuman power in his green eyes.

"Hello, Senator," the Cigarette-Smoking-Man said, standing up.

The man barely acknowledged the greeting. "Who is this?" he asked. He spoke scarcely above a whisper, yet his voice carried far into the murky corners of the basement.

"Senator?" Casey said, confused.

"Who is this?" the man repeated with a note of impatience.

"He is not a threat," the Smoking Man answered coolly.

"Senator?" Casey said again.

"His memory must be erased," the man stated without emotion.

The Smoking Man reached in his breast pocket and took out a cigarette. He circled around the chairs and stopped three feet away from the visitor.

"On the contrary," the Smoking Man said, the flame from the lighter illuminating his face. "I believe he is ready." He looked up from his cigarette and met the other man's eyes.

"Ready for what?"

Neither man answered. They held eye contact, an entire conversation occurring in that one-thousandth of a second.

"What? What the hell's going on?" Casey asked loudly.

The Smoking Man turned to his nephew. "Casey, this is Senator Roberts, chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Senator, my nephew."

Casey opened and closed his mouth. It took him a second to recover from his shock. "Uh, ah, Senator…" he managed to squeak out.

Senator Roberts shook his head almost imperceptibly at the Smoking Man, eyes questioning.

The Smoking Man nodded back, a tiny smile flitting across his face.

The senator reached out a hand. "My pleasure, Casey," he said cordially, smiling. Casey saw that the smile never reached his eyes.

"Shall we get down to business?" the Smoking Man asked.

"Take me to her," the senator said.

* * *

Scully watched them from her place outside the window. She could hear nothing of what was said, but the senator's presence aroused her curiosity even more. _Even the chairman of the Intelligence Committee is involved? _she thought. _How high up does this go?_

The three men ascended the stairs, the Smoking Man leading the way. Scully sighed when they disappeared out of sight. There was nothing else she could do here. Her mind buzzing with questions, she returned to her car and drove home.

* * *

Casey followed his uncle and the senator up the stairs, past the first floor, then the second floor, stopping at last before a door he assumed led into the attic. His uncle allowed him access to the basement and first floor only; he had never been up here, never even thought about what could be hidden in the uncharted heights of his uncle's house.

The Smoking Man unlocked the door and they stepped inside. Casey gaped at the room before him, at the gleaming counters, the humming machines, the doctors, the bed in the center of the room.

"What is this?" he whispered.

The Smoking man led them to the bedside. A woman lay there, eyes closed, her complexion pasty. Her hands were folded on top of the sheets, marred with holes where countless IV needles had delivered their poison.

Senator Roberts smiled with satisfaction. "How soon?" he asked.

"A few days, at the most," the Smoking Man answered.

"Children?"

"All in good time, Senator."

Casey struggled to take in this meaningless exchange. He stared at the woman. She looked like she was dead. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but before he could, the woman's eyes shot open.

"You," she said hoarsely, looking directly at the Smoking Man, hatred settling into her fine features. Her eyes traveled to the senator, then landed on Casey. Her gray eyes registered astonishment. She shifted her gaze back to the Smoking Man.

"You bastard! How many women have you beguiled?" she accused angrily.

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man smiled ruefully. "Now, now, Cassandra," he soothed. "Don't get all worked up. He's the last one."

"Last one! Last one of how many? How many lives have you got to ruin before you are satisfied? How many? What do you want? What do you _want_?" she spat, distressed.

The Smoking Man motioned to a nearby doctor. The doctor nodded acknowledgement and took a syringe from a tray. He went up to the bed and, with one fluid motion, pushed the sedative into Cassandra's shoulder. She fell silent, body relaxing, her eyes drifting shut.

Casey let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. There was something about the woman, something that compelled him to listen, to believe.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Casey asked heatedly.

The senator gave him a patronizing look and left the room.

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man beckoned for Casey to follow him. They left the attic and entered a room on the second floor. It was bare, devoid of furniture, pictures, anything to show that it was occupied.

"What? What are you doing?" Casey kept asking.

The Smoking Man went to the window and looked out across the street. "Cassandra is sick. Psychotic. Unstable. Capable of anything."

"W-what? Who is she?"

"My wife."

"Y-y-your wife? My aunt?"

"Yes."

"Well, okay. Is this what you couldn't tell me before? And what does it all have to do with Sammi and Agent Mulder?"

"Agent Mulder is Sammi's sister. He knows something about Cassandra's illness. We believe he is a part of something, a conspiracy, if you will, that seeks to test biological weapons on the American public. When we found out that Sammi is his sister, whom he'd been looking for for years, a door opened up for us. This was a way to lure him out here, to earn his trust, and eventually, to bend him to our will."

"Who's we?"

"The senator and I. His is a personal friend of mine. He owes me a few favors."

"And so you act mysteriously to…what? Arouse Agent Mulder's suspicions?"

"It is his nature. We only seek to placate him."

Casey huffed a loud breath. "Okay. Now that I know, I want no part in it."

The Smoking Man nodded. "I expected that. But with Mulder, we can hope to stop these tests. We can protect the American people, their rights, their undying devotion to this country and the Constitution. You, in turn, can be a part of something great, something noble. You can be a hero."

Casey had always dreamed of doing great things. His uncle's speech was moving, appealing to his very soul. There was no choice to make. He was in.

"Okay. Okay. What do you want me to do?"

The Smoking Man smiled. "That's my boy."

* * *

_State Department_

_May 5th _

_10:30pm_

* * *

Ronald Davidson lounged in the armchair, feet crossed on the coffee table before him. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table, along with a bag of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa. He crunched on a chip absently, immersed in the gunfight on television.

The door behind him opened and closed. An awkward young man whose limbs were a bit too long stumbled to another chair and plopped down.

Davidson threw him a look of profound disgust. "What are you doing tracking mud all over the rug?"

The young man looked at his large feet. Mud caked his shoes; a trail of dirt led from the door to the chair. He shrugged self-consciously. "Sorry," he apologized meekly.

Davidson sighed. "Alright, what do you want?"

"Well, surveillance showed the smoking guy talking to his nephew," the young man said, sitting up. "Uh, Senator Roberts showed up. He's doing a hell of an acting job, that's for sure. A foreign vehicle was seen around the corner…ah, oh, yes, we finally saw a glimpse of the rumored woman. She's alive, and well, relatively speaking at least."

"Mm, thank you, Michael. There's hope for you yet," Davidson said. "Now, what of Mulder?"

"Well, so far he'd been doing nothing but roll in the hay. If I didn't know any better I'd say the smoking guy is behind it all."

"Mr. Spender is beyond suspicion," Davidson replied reproachfully.

Michael colored. "Yes sir. I know. Just a thought, that's all."

"Well, good. Good. Keep watching. Anything happens, anything at all, you let me know. Let's get this show on the road."

"Yes sir, I will." Michael shifted his long legs. "Uh, ah, sir…"

"Yeah, yeah, get out of my sight."

"Yes sir," Michael said, relieved.

Davidson listened to Michael's uneven footsteps down the hall. He grabbed another tortilla chip. "You better make your move soon, Mulder. My finger's itching to pull the trigger." On the television screen, a cowboy tumbled off his horse, clutching at empty air. Stains of crimson spread over his checkered shirt.

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive_

_May 5th _

_10:40pm_

* * *

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man watched Cassandra as she slept. In a day or two, his fate will be sealed. His fate, his power, his destiny. No one, no one, will take that from him. Not Mulder, not Diana, not the government, and certainly not Scully. The gold was so close, so close; he could see it glittering in the corner of his eye. After this, he need not hide. After this, he will have more power than anyone ever dreamed of.

* * *

_A/N: This one was a bit long. I hope it wasn't too tedious to read. And sorry about the delay, but the next chapters will be even slower in coming. I've remained true to my character and left my long list of summer reading till the last minute. And no, it's not procrastination—it's INCUBATION. ;-)_

_P.S. I have nothing against Senator Pat Roberts. He's just a convenient character for the story. So please, don't arrest me for treason or anything._


	6. And the World Turns

Chapter 6: And the World Turns

* * *

_FBI Headquarters_

_Washington, D.C._

_May 6th _

_8:14am_

* * *

Scully sat at Mulder's desk, intent on her laptop. She scrolled through the files on the screen, looking for any reference to Senator Patrick Roberts. When she was halfway through her second cup of coffee, she came upon a newspaper article from June 1998.

"…Senator Roberts' sudden recovery shocked his doctors. 'We found him in the cafeteria, munching on Texas toast. He'd been brain-dead, due to the injuries to his spine and brain stem. It's impossible for someone to recover from such injuries. It's a miracle, that's all I can think of,' says Dr. Wayne Christian of the Bethesda Naval Hospital…"

Intrigued, Scully searched for the senator's medical files. To her surprise, the hospital database rejected her request. She tried again, this time using her credentials as a medical doctor instead of a FBI agent. Once again she was denied access. She tried several other databases, and each time she received the same message.

"What on earth is going on here?" she grumbled angrily. There was definitely something suspicious about the senator. Frustrated, she shut her laptop and stood up. _One more trip to the three stooges' couldn't hurt_, she thought to herself.

* * *

_Lone Gunmen residence_

_May 6th _

_9:37am_

* * *

"Why do you need them?" Frohike asked, following Scully to the table.

"Senator Roberts may be involved with the Smoking Man," she explained. The Lone Gunmen looked at her in surprise. "Yes, I know. It shocked me, too. Well, this morning I was looking for incongruities in his files when I found this." She handed them the article. "I can't access his medical records. I think something other than a miraculous recovery occurred here. That's why I need you guys to get me his files."

Byers looked up from the paper. "We're on it," he said. Langly nodded in agreement. His hands flew over the keyboard.

"This is weird," he said suddenly, fingers frozen in mid-stroke.

"What?" asked Frohike, crowding around the PC. Byers looked over Langly's shoulder.

"Senator Roberts' medical files are protected by a code from the Department of State," Langly answered. The Gunmen turned to look at Scully.

Scully frowned. "I don't know. Why would the State Department…can you get in?'

"Of course," Langly replied, slightly piqued. "I was just surprised."

Moments later, the printer whirred to life. Langly sat back smugly. "Piece of cake."

Frohike rolled his eyes. "It's the State Department, O Genius One. Amateurs can crack it."

"Well, let's see _you _do it, then, _Fro_hike," Langly huffed.

"Guys," Byers warned, jerking his head toward Scully. She was standing by the printer, scanning each page as it glided onto the tray.

The three of them fell silent, waiting expectantly.

Finally Scully looked up at them, blue eyes wide with disbelief.

"What?" all three Gunmen asked simultaneously.

Scully inhaled deeply. "Apparently our senator was involved in a plane crash in the summer of '98. Rescuers found him clinging to life, with a hemorrhage in the brain stem and a broken spine. By all accounts he should have died, but they kept him breathing with a respirator. There was no hope for a recovery. Then a month later, a nurse came in to change his bedpan and found the room empty. They found him ten minutes later in the hospital cafeteria, walking, talking, perfectly fine." She paused, letting the Gunmen take it in.

"Lucky guy," Langly commented.

"Yeah," Scully said. "But that's not the half of it. Aside from the full recovery, they found him to be in _perfect health_. Prior to the accident, he suffered from Type II diabetes, heart murmurs, asthma, and a number of allergies. After the recovery, all of his previous conditions were undetectable. Suddenly he was the epitome of health, like someone had given him a magic potion. It's incredible."

The Gunmen looked at one another.

"Do you have any idea what happened?" asked Byers.

"I'm not sure," Scully answered slowly. "But I think I know someone who might."

* * *

_Easton Clinic_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 6th _

_9:31am_

* * *

"Fox Mulder," the nurse called into the crowded waiting room.

Mulder stood up reluctantly and headed to the door at the far end. Diana set down her magazine and followed, carefully stepping over the feet of three women crying into a communal wad of Kleenex.

"Good morning, Mr. Mulder," the nurse said cheerfully. "You'll be in Two. First door on the left down the second hallway."

"Thanks."

They followed the nurse's directions and entered Exam Room Two. It was like all exam rooms, with the bed in the corner and the counter along one side.

Mulder sighed loudly. "Do I have to do this?" he whined.

Diana shook her head in mock exasperation. "We talked about this yesterday, remember?"

"Yeah yeah yeah. You don't want me to turn psycho."

"Exactly," Diana said, grinning.

"Morning," a throaty voice said behind them. Mulder turned and saw a kindly man with a gray beard, looking up through bushy eyebrows; a folder lay open in his arms. "I'm Doctor Drew Easton," he said, shifting the folder and extending a hand.

"Hi," Mulder answered, returning the gesture.

The doctor let go and smiled at Diana. "So Ms. Fowley tells me that you'd like a physical as well as a psychological examination?"

Mulder glanced at Diana. "It was her idea, actually. I'm not crazy, you know."

Dr. Easton chuckled. "No, no, I'm sure you're not." He flipped through the folder. "Well, I see you're due for a tetanus shot, so we'll get that done first, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Mulder answered, raising his eyebrows at the doctor's promptness.

"Okay then. Have a seat on the bed there," Dr. Easton instructed. Then he turned and left the room.

"Wow. He likes to get to the point," Mulder observed.

Diana only smiled.

A minute later, Dr. Easton returned with a syringe. He smiled warmly and motioned for Mulder to lift his sleeve. He rubbed Mulder's arm with alcohol, catching Diana's eye. She nodded her consent. Dr. Easton pulled back the plunger and thrust the needle into Mulder's arm. Diana watched as the liquid in the syringe lessened little by little.

Mulder began to feel faint. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. The drug worked fast; he was unconscious in a few seconds.

Dr. Easton withdrew the syringe and threw it in the trash can. "All right. He's out. Are we ready to go?"

"Mmhmm," Diana answered. She stuck her head out into the hallway and beckoned to the two doctors in the room across the hall. They came in and, together with Dr. Easton, lifted Mulder off the bed and carried him to the end of the hallway. Diana held open the back door as the three doctors took him outside and into the back of a waiting van. Dr. Easton shut the door and the four of them climbed inside.

"Let's go," said the man in the passenger seat when everyone was settled. He took out a cigarette from his breast pocket and placed it between his parched lips. "Let's go."

* * *

_A/N: Sorry sorry sorry that it took so long! I wrote it, rewrote it, then rewrote it again, and I STILL_ _don't like it. But here it is. Please review and tell me what you think! _


	7. Men of Doomsday

Chapter 7: Men of Doomsday

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 6th _

_10:43am_

* * *

Fox Mulder lay on the metal table, still as death. His face registered no pain, no emotion, deep in a sedated sleep. A doctor was bent over at the waist, stitching a wound above his left ear. Another doctor stood off to the side, monitoring Mulder's vitals and the EEG machine. At the far end of the room, next to the curtained window, a geneticist with scraggly gray hair squinted fiercely at the petri dish on the counter, preparing a culture. A row of Erlenmeyer flasks sat before him, the liquids inside them reflecting light onto the countertop.

Casey watched nervously from the corner of the attic. The white lights left no shadow in the room, and he worked unsuccessfully to hide his discomfort from his uncle. He glanced over at the Cigarette-Smoking-Man, at his straight back and expressionless face.

"What did they just do?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Brain cells. Neurons," the Smoking Man answered, not turning his head. "To be transplanted into your aunt to cure her of her illness."

"Can you tell me what she's sick with?" Casey asked curiously.

"Brain disease," the Smoking Man said curtly.

The doctor finished up with his suture and reached for a bandage on the tray. Casey bit his lip.

"I thought you wanted him for information," Casey said timidly.

The Smoking Man frowned slightly. "That, and his brain cells," he said simply.

"He's not going to be affected, right?"

"Of course not. He'll sleep off the drug and be told that he had a little accident at the doctor's office."

"Well, when you get what you want from him, will you send him back?"

"Why? So he can hurt someone else?"

Casey sputtered a little. "Well, no. No, if he's going to continue…But what if his colleagues come looking? I mean, you never know. He should be sent back as soon as possible."

"We already had this conversation."

"Yes, yes, but his partner…she'll come knocking on my door…" Casey stopped, realizing that he should have kept his mouth shut.

Lips tight, the Smoking Man seized his nephew by the elbow and pulled him outside and onto the stairs.

"What do you mean, she'll come knocking on your door?" he demanded.

Casey paled. "Uh, well, uh, you know, if she digs a little…"

"Digs a little? Into what? Please tell me you didn't do something stupid." The Smoking Man's eyes narrowed with menace.

"No, no, I did nothing—" Casey began weakly.

"Don't lie to me!"

"S-Scully, sh-she came to tal-talk to me yesterday…"

"She found you? How?"

"I-I-I don't know." The Smoking Man's eyes bore into his. "Honestly, I have no clue!"

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man sighed. "Tell me everything you did. Everything."

Casey took a deep breath. "I, ah, registered with _Wolfenstein_. I played, like you asked me, and they made fun of my name…called me a French flower—"

"LeFleur?"

"Yeah, yeah—"

"LeFleur?" the Smoking Man spat with a mixture of anger and incredulity.

Casey nodded stupidly.

"You used a real name? Are you so foolish as to use a _real _name? Did you not think that it could be traced?"

"I…I…It's my mother's maiden name…I didn't think anyone would…" Casey defended himself, shaking in his shoes.

"_Any _name can be traced! Especially one so personal! How—get out of my house!"

Casey trembled uncontrollably. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat at the glint in his uncle's eyes. His jaws snapped shut with a _clunk_ and he shuffled hurriedly down the stairs.

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man watched his nephew stumble in haste and laughed maliciously. He retrieved a cell phone from an inner pocket and dialed quickly.

"Kill him," he said without expression. _Failures, all of them,_ he thought wearily. He turned back to the attic door, without a trace of the emotion he had shown minutes before. _Dependence is the highest weakness…_

* * *

_State Department_

_May 6th _

_10:40am_

* * *

"What? What?" Ronald Davidson asked at the top of his lungs. He crossed the room in three strides, reaching his team even before the door slammed shut.

"Well, sir," someone began. "Agent Mulder is in Mr. Spender's house. At first we thought that he was sick, as a part of his plan. Then, here," a finger traced the outlines of the three doctors on the frozen screen, "we've got three doctors performing a surgery on the side of his head, what looks like an operation on Agent Mulder's temporal lobe—"

"All right! We expected that! Tell me something I don't know!" Davidson interrupted impatiently.

The young man, Michael, stepped forward. "Uh, sir, something you didn't think would happen…I think the operation was successful…"

Davidson turned to face him. "Successful?" he asked slowly, enunciating every syllable.

Michael squirmed under Davidson's gaze. "Y-yes sir. Uh, they have a dish full of the stuff…"

Davidson spun on his heels and stomped to the door.

"Keep watching," he threw over his shoulder. "I want somebody at the monitors at all times."

His team nodded feebly.

Davidson shut the door behind him. He took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. He walked down the halls and entered his office, heading straight for the telephone.

He hit the speed dial and waited.

"Yes?"

"Take him out. Don't play with him. Find the tissue and bring it to me. I want this done soon, but do it clean. Maybe tomorrow. You know the rest."

"Yes."

Davidson replaced the phone in the cradle. Spender would have his head, but he could not risk the cells. They were his. His, and only his.

* * *

_Green Oak Lane_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 6th _

_11:02am_

* * *

Scully licked her lips anxiously. _He will be there_, she droned inside her head. Her need to speak with Casey throbbed heavily in her stomach. Mulder was in danger; she knew that much. The Smoking Man and the almost inhuman senator could mean only one thing—schemes.

"Damn it!" she exploded, slamming her fist on the steering wheel. "You're a fool, Mulder," she said aloud.

As she neared Casey's house, she saw Casey's Camry driving in from the opposite direction. She sighed inwardly, relieved. She parked on the curb by the mailbox and walked up the driveway, a greeting readying itself on the tip of her tongue. Casey stepped out of the car, trying to smile. His arms hung tense at his sides. His shoulders shook with fear. He lifted a foot. The smile wavered. His foot descended back toward the pavement. Before it landed fully on the ground, a tangible force sent his body reeling backwards. His knees buckled, his back slumped, and his elbows splintered on the concrete. He lay with his cheek against the warm surface of his driveway, waiting for the sound of the gunshot.

Scully jumped at the crack of the gun. Her senses remained at a standstill for a tenth of a second; then her medical training clicked into place. She hurried to Casey's side and saw a pool of blood gathering beneath his body. She gently flipped Casey over onto his back and ripped open his shirt. A massive wound pulsated in the middle of his chest, oozing blood from the hole where the bullet had passed through. She tore a piece of fabric from her blouse and applied pressure to the wound, breathing raggedly through her mouth, praying that Casey would live. She called an ambulance with bloodied fingertips, leaving scarlet stains on the sleek silver surface.

The man withdrew the gun from the parapet. Gray eyebrows bunched together, angry. He took out a phone and called his boss.

"The redhead is here," he said. His words were clipped, wrapped in a slight Mexican accent.

There was a pause. Then: "Leave them. Fix it later."

* * *

_A/N: I hope it's not confusing. :-/ If it is, let me know, and I'll explain a little in the beginning of the next chapter. Did you like it? I'd really like to know what you think! :-) _


	8. Severance

_A bit of clarification: So far, the perceived bad guys include CSM, Senator Pat Roberts, and Ronald Davidson of the State Department. Each is after his own aims. Mulder, of course, is caught in the middle, slightly befuddled himself…_

_The story began on Saturday, May 2nd. It is now Wednesday, May 6th._

_And—I know I took a year to write this chapter. LOL. Enjoy._

* * *

Chapter 8: Severance

_

* * *

_

_St. Mary's Hospice_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 6th _

_3:33pm_

* * *

"Agent Scully?"

Dana Scully looked up tiredly; her eyes landed on the pudgy neck of the nurse in front of her.

"Mr. Whitfield is in stable condition, Agent Scully. You wanted to see him?"

Scully blinked, waiting for something to click. "…Ah, yes, yes…"

"Room 214, ma'am. I'll be down the hall, if you need anything." The nurse maneuvered her plump body around the knees of the people in the waiting room. Scully watched the woman's swaying bum, somewhat repulsed. She stood up, reluctant to leave the relative comfort of her chair.

Her heels echoed loudly in the empty hallway. Pungent odors of alcohol and anesthetic mixed with smells of ill health wafted up her nostrils, making her wince. She was reminded of the numerous times that she had been in hospitals just like this, at the bedside of her family or best friend, or sick herself, abject, waiting. She shook off the memories.

"Mr. Whitfield?" she called softly when she opened the door.

Casey turned his head slowly and met her eyes. His lips curled slightly.

"Agent Scully," he said, barely above a whisper.

"Hi." Scully closed the door behind her and moved a chair to sit by the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Crappy."

Scully chuckled. "How's the wound?"

"Don't remind me."

They fell silent, neither knowing what to say.

At length Casey spoke up, awkward in the moment. "I, um…thank you…for being there when…it happened…if it weren't…I don't know…I…just…just thanks." He smiled ruefully.

Scully nodded, acknowledging his sentiments. She re-crossed her legs. "Do you feel like talking?"

Casey looked at her. "Do I have a choice?"

Scully stared back.

"I guess not."

"Any idea who may have wanted to hurt you?" Scully began.

Casey paused before answering. "Yes. Yes. I think so."

Scully raised an eyebrow.

"My uncle."

"Your uncle."

"Yes."

Scully waited. She had already guessed that Casey's uncle was the Smoking Man.

"He…um…" Casey scoffed a little. "He's not exactly gentle, you know?" He looked up at Scully. "He's…involved in lot of things, smokes a lot. Always has been. He's the only family I've got left…He sent the money to my grandparents when I was growing up. He wanted my help. But I screwed up."

"By talking to me?"

"He's not really bad, you know," Casey went on, ignoring Scully's question. "Just gruff. Thinks he's all that. But he really wants to help people, and—"

Scully held up a hand. "What does your uncle do?"

Casey puzzled for a moment. "You know, I really don't know. I know that he knows people in high places, but…I don't know."

"What did he want your help with?" Scully asked, watching Casey carefully.

"Agent Mulder. He wanted my help with Agent Mulder. To get him to come to the house." Casey seemed to wrestle a moment with his loyalties, but he shrugged it off. "Agent Mulder has a sister. I thought it was just to get them back together again, but then…How well do you know your partner?"

Scully frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Casey cast a furtive look toward the door. "Well, Agent Mulder is part of a conspiracy that tests out biological weapons on the public."

Scully tried not to smile.

Casey closed his mouth. He had expected a shocked reaction, and Scully's response rendered him momentarily confused.

"You knew?"

"No. But go on."

"Oh. Well, Uncle found a victim, I think. He wanted Agent Mulder for information. And his brain cells. They're supposed to cure my aunt."

It was Scully's turn to look puzzled.

"He didn't tell me much. Just that my aunt has a brain disease, and Agent Mulder's cells would cure her."

Comprehension began to dawn. "Does your uncle want to operate on Agent Mulder? Transplant the cells?"

"It's already been done."

Scully started. "What?"

"It's done. The removing part, anyway." Casey caught a glimpse of Scully's face before she rearranged it. "Don't worry," he added. "Agent Mulder's fine. But he doesn't deserve it."

Scully shook her head, putting aside her worries. "Listen, Casey. Your uncle is wrong. I don't know what he's up to, but I do know this: Agent Mulder is innocent. He is not a part of any conspiracy, nor would he ever, even if his life depended on it, voluntarily hurt innocent people."

The fierceness of her words brought a stillness into the room. Casey swallowed.

"Who is your aunt?" Scully asked after a minute.

"My uncle's wife," Casey answered quickly. "I don't know her name. I didn't even know she existed until yesterday."

"Do you know anyone else who's involved in all of this?"

"As far as I know, there's Mulder's sister, Sammi—Samantha—I don't think she knows anything—and this other woman. Diana, I think—I only met her once."

Scully scowled. _Of course_.

"…And…a senator came to visit Uncle last night. The chairman of the intelligence committee or something. It seemed like he knew a lot."

"Okay. Okay." Scully stood up. "You've been a lot of help, Casey. Thank you. Do you think your uncle would mind if I paid him a visit?"

Casey tried to sit up. "I don't—how do you—no, no, of course not."

Scully nodded and turned to the door.

"Agent Scully—"

She turned.

"He'll kill me. I know it. I shouldn't have talked to you…He'd find a way…" Casey's eyes were wide with fear.

Scully smiled reassuringly. "It's going to be okay. I'll post guards outside your door."

* * *

_Marilyn Drive_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 6th _

_4:21pm_

* * *

Scully drove slowly up the street, stomach knotted with apprehension. She knew that guards would not stop the smoking sonofabitch, but there was nothing else she could do. Casey was immobile, and she had to be here. She had to see the Cancer Man.

When she was just a few houses away from her destination, Scully saw a tall, lanky man ahead of her on the sidewalk, strolling with his arm around another woman. Her heart hurtled into her throat. She pulled haphazardly to the side of the street and scrambled out, sprinting to catch up with the couple.

"Mulder!" she shouted breathlessly. The man turned, surprised.

"Mulder? Mulder, it's me…" Scully trailed off when Diana, too, turned around, and shared a long look with Mulder.

"I'll handle this," Scully heard Diana say softly.

Mulder shook his head. 'No, no, I'll do it. I'll be fine."

Scully glared at Diana's receding back, imagining a lion mauling her apart.

Mulder thrust his hands into his pockets. Scully looked up at him, brows furrowed in concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked. She reached out a hand to touch Mulder's arm, but Mulder backed away.

"Mulder?" Scully asked again, tentative, a little hurt.

"You shouldn't be here."

Scully felt her jaw slacken. "What? Mulder, it's me. I'm here to take you home."

"This is home."

The flat cadence of his voice frightened her.

"Mulder…Mulder, listen to me, they've been messing with your head, this is _not _home."

"It is. Samantha is here. And Diana. You don't belong."

"Mulder, no, no, that's not right. I know you, you would never settle for this—"

"You don't know me at all." He turned to go.

Scully grabbed his hand, held it in a deathlike grip. Her eyes shone with tears. "Mulder, you would never do this. What about the truth? What about your crusade, your fight, everything you've lived for…You would never do this, Mulder, not to me…" Desperation hung across her words, stretched tightly, on the verge of breaking point—

—And with a powerful motion, Mulder wrenched his hand out of Scully's grasp. He met her eyes for the first time.

"Don't ever come back."

* * *

_A/N: Okey-dokey. I apologize for the one-year delay…:-) And, as always, I welcome all comments. _


	9. Bleepholes

Chapter 9: Bleepholes

* * *

_Scully's apartment_

_May 6th_

_8:18pm_

* * *

It was a gorgeous sunset. Pinks and lavenders laced with all the colors of the rainbow were strewn across the sky, like rose petals left carelessly upon the ground by a gust of wind. The last of the sunlight prodded at the curtains with gentle warmth, seeking entry, wanting to color the dark room within.

Scully sat frozen at the kitchen table, shoes and jacket still on, keys held tightly in her hand. Her eyes were glued obsessively to the same spot on the surface of the wood, a maroon spot, the evidence of a little experiment with potassium permanganate Mulder had decided to carry out. It was a permanent mark of their friendship. Mulder's hands had been stained brown, and they had brushed the hair from her cheek, leaving tan streaks in their wake.

Her keys dug into her palm, but Scully took no notice. One side of her body was asleep, its circulation cut off by the awkward position in which she had settled herself three hours ago.

_Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis_, her brain intoned foggily. _Motor neurons affected, muscles waste away…_

Except for the tears she had shed in the car, Scully had not cried. Indeed, she hadn't shown any emotion at all.

_Oncogenes, Eric Landers, Human Genome Project_…

Instead her mind had begun to list information like an automated computer, on and on and on.

And behind it all, Mulder's last words resounded in her head, bouncing from one wall to another:

_"Don't ever come back."_

_"Don't ever come back."_

_"Don't ever come back."_

She will show him. She will show him that her loyalty is infallible, she will show him the truth, force him to see it.

_The Bronsted-Lowry model explains that bases are proton acceptors, while the Lewis model…_

No matter what happens, she will make him see. Even if it means their friendship. Even if it means her life.

* * *

_Federal Triangle Metro Station_

_Washington, D.C._

_May 6th_

_9:23pm_

* * *

Ronald Davidson leaned against the bicycle rack, jiggling his legs. Every thirty seconds he took an impatient look at his watch, cursed every time he saw the hands in the same places.

"Bastard, bastard, bastard," he muttered edgily to himself. "Why is he always late? Bastard. God. F— bastard."

"Speak up, Ron, I can't quite hear you."

Davidson jumped, his ankle connecting painfully with the wheel of the bike next to him.

"Oh, God, you're here. Why are you always late? It's nine twenty-three. Jesus."

"There was business to take care of."

Davidson scowled at the cigarette in the other man's hand. "Speaking of business…"

The Cigarette-Smoking Man took a long draw.

"I thought the brain cells couldn't be removed," Davidson said. "You lied to me, Spender."

"No," the Smoking Man answered calmly, "I did not. They can't be."

"What the hell do you think I am, Spender? An ignoramus?"

"Congratulations. You know a big word."

Davidson fell silent. How was he to confront the man when he wasn't supposed to know about the operation?

"You must have an outside source," the Smoking Man said derisively.

"Are you suggesting that I am going back on our deal?" Davidson bristled. "I can assure you, I am a man of my word."

"So am I," the Smoking Man replied.

The two men glared at each other.

"Everything is fine," the Smoking Man said finally. "There is no need to worry." He began to walk away.

"Just remember, the system will be out of your reach as long as I don't have the stuff!" Davidson called out after him.

He had the distinct impression that the Smoking Man's back was swaying with laughter.

* * *

_106 Marilyn Drive_

_May 7th_

_8:44am_

* * *

Mulder stepped out into the sunshine, stretching luxuriously. The wound from the slip at the clinic didn't feel so bad anymore; after all, it was only a little cut. He padded down the driveway, heading for the paper caught at the curbside. A beat-up old Chevrolet clunked up the street, emitting black exhaust. Mulder shook his head. A rich neighborhood should be free of poor bastards.

The truck paused for a split second in front of him before laboring on. It was another five seconds before he felt the pain in his head. Something wet crept down his temple, into his ear. He couldn't see. Where was the paper? He rocked back on the balls of his feet, the momentum of which, combined with the dizziness he felt, carried him backwards and onto the concrete. Why was he on the ground? Where was the paper?

The wound pulsed in the side of his head, in time with his heartbeat.

* * *

A/N: _I'm trying out the concept of short chapters. Tell me if you like it. Or if you don't. :-) _


	10. A Little Bit of Hell

Chapter 10: A Little Bit of Hell

* * *

_Russell Building_

_Washington, D.C._

_May 7th_

_10:02am_

* * *

"The senator is out, ma'am," said the young woman at the desk.

Scully closed the door. "I know—" she looked at the nametag "—Elizabeth."

The woman squinted up at her. "Is there something I can help you with?"__

"May I sit down?" Scully asked without answering.

"Sure."

Scully took a seat in the chair in front of the desk, folding her hands in her lap.

"Can I help you?" Elizabeth asked again.

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI," Scully answered. She displayed her badge. "I have a few questions about the senator."

Elizabeth looked stricken. She could have been no more than twenty-five years old, with wispy brown hair and a round, innocent face. She played nervously with the memos on the desk. "Why? Has something, like, happened to him?"

Scully noted the reaction. "No, Elizabeth. Senator Roberts is fine. I'm investigating a case of my colleague's, and the senator's name came up. There is no need for concern."

Elizabeth nodded.

"I understand you're one of the senator's top aides," Scully said.

"Yeah."

"How long have you worked for him?"

"Since I was a Senate page. Like in high school. I ran errands for him. Then he told me, like, he couldn't manage without me."

Scully raised an eyebrow. "Right. I'm sure you're aware that the senator was involved in a serious accident a couple of years ago."

Elizabeth's face clouded with the memory. "Yeah. I remember. I was waiting for him at the airstrip, but he never made it. I saw him at the hospital. It was scary." She warmed at Scully's open face. "He's a very active man, right. So it was, like, awful, seeing him just lying there. I couldn't even see him breathe."

"You care about him."

"Yeah, I do. I mean, he's like a father to me, you know? My dad was a drunk, and he beat up my mom. The senator sort of, like, took me under his wing. I could talk to him, you know?"

"Yeah. And then he recovered."

"Oh, yeah. It was definitely a miracle. I prayed every night, and, like, somehow I knew he was going to be okay."

Scully shifted slightly. "Did anything change after he came back?"

"What do you mean?" the aide asked, puzzled.

"Well, did he act differently, talk differently, was there a change in habits…"

Elizabeth answered slowly. "Yeah, I guess. At least a little bit. He used to be, like, this, like, huge raisin-holic. He'd have me run to get boxes and boxes of them. And then one day, after he came back to work, I made him a raisin cake, and like, he just smiled politely and didn't even eat it. I saw it on Senator Daschle's fridge two days later."

"Uh huh. Maybe he was having a lousy day. Did anything else strike you as odd?"

"Well…" Elizabeth lowered her voice. "I'm not supposed to know about this, but I walked in on him and this other man one time. The other guy, like, smoked a lot, and the senator hates smokers. But they were talking like they'd known each other for a long time."

"What did they talk about?"

"I only heard a little. Something about _them_. Like 'Were _they_ ready?' or 'Did _they_ work?', and they, like, kept saying things about this guy named Mulder. Then they argued over this woman. I was kinda miffed. The senator usually tells me about them, well, you know, no one's supposed to know, but they all have mistresses. So yeah. They argued about Cassandra. I don't know who she is, but they were both pretty crazy about her."

Scully's mind reeled with the information. _Cassandra? I thought she'd been taken…_

"Do you remember anything they said about this woman, Cassandra?"

Elizabeth giggled. "Yep. They kept saying that her thighs were bred. And that, like, her body was the key to everything." She paused for a minute, smirking. "Then again, they said that about the Mulder guy, too."

_That his thighs were bred and his body was the key? _Scully laughed inwardly, humorless.

"Anything else?" Scully asked out loud.

"Well, like, you know, everybody has their quirks. I dunno. The senator's just like, a great man."

Scully stood up. "All right, Elizabeth, thank you for your cooperation."

"No problem," Elizabeth called cheerily.

In the elevator, Scully leaned against the wood panels and closed her eyes. It had taken so much effort to put on her professional mask. She wanted to scowl until the crease between her brows became permanent.

_Like, like, like_, she repeated in her head. _I'd like to strangle the girl_.

* * *

_M Street_

_Washington, D.C._

_May 7th_

_1:43pm_

* * *

Scully walked tiredly up to the coffee stand, hands deep in her jacket pockets despite the warm weather. She had spent the rest of the morning going over all the files she could find on Samantha Mulder. And there had been nothing. Except the paper that called off the investigation—signed by _C.G.B. Spender_. That was the last document.

She nodded to the vendor. He handed her her usual order.

"Agent Scully," said a familiar voice.

Scully whirled around and met the amused expression of the Smoking Man, standing just behind her.

"What do you want?" she demanded with more calm than she felt.

The Cigarette-Smoking Man indicated to the coffee stand. "Just something to drink."

Scully stepped aside, eyes hard.

"I'd like to give you some advice," the Smoking Man said a moment later, coffee in hand. He began a leisurely stroll down the street. Scully followed, coming up abreast and matching his every stride.

"One should never interfere in another's decisions," he said.

"And you should talk?" Scully asked, scoffing.

"Sometimes you must sleep with the enemy to get what you want."

Scully stopped in her tracks and asked angrily, "What have you done to Mulder?"

The Smoking stopped, too, and turned slightly to look at her. "Nothing. Everything he does is of his own choosing."

"Really? What about the operation? To remove his _brain cells_?" Scully rounded on the man. "What about the lie he's living now, with his sister, with that _bitch _Diana—"

"He may not be living much longer," the Smoking Man interrupted sardonically.

Scully's eyes widened in surprise.

"He was shot this morning. Single bullet to the head."

Scully took a deep breath. "I suppose that's of his own choosing, too?"

"Good-bye, Agent Scully," said the Smoking Man, giving no indication that he had heard her question. He gave a small smile and walked away.

Scully was about to hurry after him when he turned once again. "Oh, by the way, Dana," he said. "He's at St. Mary's."

* * *

_St. Mary's Hospice_

_Brenda, Maryland_

_May 7th_

_2:31pm_

* * *

His face was turned toward the window. Sunlight filtered through the blinds and caught the gauze of the bandage around his head, giving her the impression that he had a glowing halo. Scully swallowed.

"Mulder," she said as she entered the room.

He didn't look at her. "What are you doing here?" he asked. It was a weak voice. But there was no ring of welcome.

"I came to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine."

"Mulder—can we talk?" Scully asked before the silence became uncomfortable.

"No."

"Why?" She held her breath, knowing the answer.

"Because you make everything worse."

"Mulder, look at me."

He didn't move.

"Look at me," Scully commanded.

He met her eyes slowly. There was no expression in the hazel eyes that she used to know so well.

"Mulder, I am not giving up. No matter how much you want me to go away, I will get to the bottom of this, and you will know the truth."

"Good for you," Diana said coolly from the doorway.

Scully ignored her and fixed Mulder with an icy gaze. "You will know the truth."

She brushed past Diana and into the hall, breathing deeply, sadly.

She watched them from the window. Watched them kiss. A muscle twitched in her neck. She walked away, determined.

She will make him see.

* * *


	11. Stroll in the Woods

Chapter 11: Stroll in the Woods

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive_

_May 8th_

_3:13am_

* * *

The predawn air was wet and chilly. Tiny droplets of moisture trickled down Scully's neck as she crouched behind the rose bush. She stared intently into the grime-encrusted window, making sure that the Cigarette-Smoking Man slept in his chair.

It was now or never.

She crept slowly to the backyard gate and climbed over effortlessly. Dropping down to the other side, she squinted in the darkness and surveyed what little could be seen by the light from the street. Her eyes traveled up the trunk of an enormous oak tree in the center of the yard. It would work just fine.

Like a cat she scrambled nimbly up into the leaves of the tree, crawling out along a branch that reached to a second floor window. Cautiously, trying to maintain her balance and her silence, Scully moved to sit astride the limb, fingers probing the screen of the window. She produced a knife and several other tools from her jacket pocket, and set to work on the point of entry.

In a few minutes she was done. Letting the screen hang loose against the brick, she slid up the windowpane and allowed herself to slide down the branch and into the room. A flashlight clicked on, illuminating the barren floors, the blank walls. Scully reached back for her gun.

_Click._

She jumped a little. But it was just the safety.

Scully held both the gun and the flashlight in front of her and sidled out into the hall. She paused, listening hard for any sounds of life. When nothing reached her ears except the whisper of the breeze outside, she proceeded down the hallway, peering into every room. They were all empty.

The attic was the only likely place. Casey had known nothing about his aunt.

She climbed the stairs, back pressed against the wall. Thankfully, the wood did not creak. The motes that had been caught in the morning sun were now caught in the silvery moon. She stared at the streaks. The dust swirled and swam, flashing, beckoning. Like dreams.

Scully shook her head.

At the door at the top of the stairs she paused again, juggling with her gun and her flashlight for her thieves' playthings. She waited to hear voices—but all was silent. Swiftly she worked at the lock, and soon she stood back, one hand on the doorknob.

She clutched her gun tightly in the other hand. Slowly, agonizingly, Scully pushed open the door.

"Jesus," she gasped. The lights of the medical bay were blinding after the blackness she had become accustomed to. She stared in surprise at the bed and its occupant, at the shiny, state-of-the-art equipment.

"Cassandra…" Blinking rapidly, Scully hurried to the bedside. Cassandra slept deeply, as the result of some bedtime sedatives. Scully checked the pulse and the contents of the nearest steel tray. Satisfied, she moved over to the counter at the far end of the room and inspected the row of dishes and flasks. They were all labeled "Mulder."

In the freezer Scully found a plastic bag. With pieces of brain frozen inside. She tried not to gag.

She placed the bag, the dishes, and the flasks inside a paper sack she'd taken from a drawer. Then, finally, she turned to Cassandra. She had to get her out of there.

After the restraining straps were undone, Scully braced herself and hoisted the frail woman into her arms. She looked past Cassandra's feet at the bulging paper sack.

"This is going to be difficult."

* * *

_State Department_

_May 8th_

_3:52am_

* * *

"Sir! Sir!"

Ronald Davidson shied in the sudden light. "What the hell do you want?" he roared when he caught sight of Michael.

His assistant trembled. "A-Agent Scully is taking the woman, sir…"

"WHAT?"

"We only have cameras in the basement and the attic, an-and, she just came out of nowhere!"

"No shit! Get me the senator!"

The ungainly young man scuttled over to the phone and dialed a long number. "Here, sir," he said a moment later, handing Davidson the receiver.

"Roberts!" Davidson barked. "Spender's got Scully in on it, too?"

He waited only a second before he burst out again. "No? No? You don't know? Well, then, what the f— hell is she doing taking the woman? What—Michael!"

"S-sir?"

"What else did she do?"

"Y-your c-cultures, sir…" Michael watched in fear as his boss's face blew up like a red balloon.

"Roberts, take care of it!" Davidson shouted into the phone. "Kill her, him, anything! I want my cells!"

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive_

_May 8th_

_4:11am_

* * *

The Cigarette-Smoking Man woke abruptly to the insistent ring of his cell phone. He answered it sullenly.

"What?"

The steely voice of Senator Pat Roberts greeted him on the other end. "You seem to be losing your touch."

"What?" The Smoking Man's tone changed from irritable to alarmed.

"Agent Scully has been inside your house."

The Smoking Man blinked. As realization dawned, he hastened to the defense.

"Nothing has gone wrong. I assure you," he said, running up the stairs and through the house.

"Mulder has been shot."

"That was not my doing. In any case, he is no longer useful to us."

"No. But a much more serious matter is hand."

The Smoking Man burst through the attic door. He looked in shock at the empty bed, the bare counter.

"No?" said the senator on the end of his phone.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

For perhaps the first time in his life, the Smoking Man was afraid.

* * *

A/N: _Our vilest villain is human after all! :0)_


	12. Catch

Chapter 12: Catch

* * *

_2330 Darling Street_

_Hillcrest Heights, Maryland_

_May 8th_

_9:34am_

* * *

"Isn't this just a darling little house now, dear, and on Darling Street!" CeeCee Rhines sang to the rather aloof, redheaded woman wearing a two-day-old black suit.

"Of course," Scully answered briskly, not even looking around.

Looking put off, CeeCee answered, "Well, then, good. I'll call the utilities, do the necessary paperwork—"

"I'd like to move in today, ma'am, right now, if possible," Scully cut in with a wave of her hand.

"Oh, no, no, no, you couldn't possibly do that," protested the realtor with a regal air. "The paperwork—oh."

Scully replaced her badge with the most arrogant expression she could assume.

CeeCee Rhines edged toward the door. "I'll, just, uh, call you, ma'am, heh, enjoy your stay!"

Scully made sure that CeeCee's silver convertible disappeared around the corner before she dashed down the front steps of the wee yellow house to her Nissan parked in the street.

"Cassandra?" she said softly to the prone figure in the backseat.

Cassandra Spender sat up slowly, painfully, and regarded Scully with foggy blue eyes.

"Agent Scully, oh, thank you…"

"Come on," Scully said, smiling kindly. She helped Cassandra out of the car and into the house. "We'll be staying here for a while."

"Okay," Cassandra panted, shaking with the exertion.

Scully led her into the one bedroom and settled her into the bed.

"I'll be back, okay? I'm going to get you some supplies. Here." She tucked the corners of the comforter around the frail woman's shoulders. "Get some rest. I'll be right back."

* * *

_State Department_

_May 8th_

_9:37am_

* * *

"Sir, she's-she's nowhere to be found."

Davidson glared into his coffee cup. "Where's Spender?"

"In his basement. Pacing."

"He'll be looking for her, too." Davidson rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "What about Mulder?"

"He's, um, still, um, alive." Michael shrank a bit, anticipating the storm.

But it didn't come.

"So everything's gone wrong," Davidson said resignedly. "Watch the hospitals, the Hoover building, Quantico, anywhere she might show up. Piggyback a satellite, tap her cell. And watch Spender."

"Agent Mulder…"

"Let him live. If the operation was successful, he'd be useless anyway."

"Do we, uh, kill her, when we find her?"

"No. Hold her and call me."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

_107 Marilyn Drive_

_May 8th _

_9:37am_

* * *

He had to find her. She'd taken everything.

He stopped pacing just long enough to slam his fist into the wall.

But he could never kill her.

And he was running out of time.

* * *

_Lone Gunmen Residence_

_May 8th_

_10:01am_

* * *

"Lonegunnen," Langly garbled into the telephone. He took another bite of his English muffin.

"It's Scully."

"Oh, hey, Dent Zdully, whudda?"

"I need your help," Scully said from the other end.

"Ohay." He listened and chewed, eyes flicking to his fellow Gunmen. "Okay," he said again after a few minutes, before hanging up.

"What'd she say?" Frohike asked.

"We need to go find ourselves a UPS truck," Langly answered brightly.

* * *

_Carmichael's Pharmacy_

_Hillcrest Heights, Maryland_

_May 8th_

_10:11am_

* * *

Scully hung up the payphone, staring absentmindedly at the greasy fingerprints on its surface. _I hope this works_, she thought.

As she entered the pharmacy, her cell phone went off. She snatched it angrily from her pocket and threw it into the nearest trashcan. _I'm getting as paranoid as Mulder_. Her stomach did a somersault. _He's probably not paranoid anymore_.

* * *

_State Department_

_May 8th_

_10:12am_

* * *

"What was that?" Davidson asked, whirling around in his chair.

"A faint signal," one of the technicians responded. "We can't trace exactly where, but…"

Davidson waited.

"Southeast of D.C. Just outside."

"She doesn't live there. What would she be doing there?"

Michael edged his way to the chair. "Maybe she rented a place, you know, to hide from us."

"Maybe she rented a place!" Davidson declared with great complacency.

"So we'll look at recent rentals in that area," said another technician. He had already begun his search.

"Right!"

The phone rang somewhere in the background. Davidson paid it no attention until Michael scurried up to him with the whole set in his hands.

"Davidson."

"Did you recruit Agent Scully as a spy?" the Smoking Man said coolly in his ear.

For a moment, Davidson was at a loss for words. "Of course not," he said finally. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, she's been inside my house."

"No," Davidson gasped melodramatically.

"Yes."

"Was anything…taken?" Davidson waited for the answer, a mad glint in his eye.

"No, no," the Smoking Man said without hesitation, his tone as even as ever.

Davidson grimaced. "Anything I can do?"

"The matter isn't critical, of course. But I'd like it if you could tell me where she is."

"We'll begin looking right away."

"Thank you, Ron."

"We're not going to tell him where she is, right, sir?" Michael asked as he took the phone out of Davidson's hand.

"No." Davidson eyed the red dots on the techs' computer screens. "Send men to all possible locations. I want confirmation before we go in."

* * *

_106 Marilyn Drive_

_May 8th_

_10:59am_

* * *

The UPS truck backed slowly into the driveway, beeping as it went. When the vehicle came to a stop, a short man jumped out, a parcel under his arm.

"Ma'am," Frohike said politely from beneath his cap.

The door opened wider when Samantha saw who it was. "Package, huh?"

"Yup. Sign here, please."

Samantha scribbled her name, one hand steadying the clipboard. She jumped a little when Frohike dropped the box.

"Oh, gosh, sorry, ma'am," he said, leaning forward clumsily as if he were going to pick it up.

"It's all right," Samantha said quickly, bending down herself. "I'll get it."

Frohike reached forward and plucked a stray strand gingerly from Samantha's long mane.

"Ack." The young woman massaged the back of her head while staring intently at the package. "Thanks," she said, not looking up.

"No problem."

"You didn't have to pluck it," Langly said when Frohike climbed back into the truck.

"What can Brown do for you?" Frohike retorted.

* * *

_2330 Darling Street_

_Hillcrest Heights, Maryland_

_May 8th_

_12:04pm_

* * *

Scully lugged three large shopping bags out of the trunk and up the steps. Casting a look about the street before entering the house, she noticed a moving van parked just a few houses down.

"Who in their right mind would drive a bright orange automobile?"

She left her purchases by the couch and peeked in on Cassandra. The woman was asleep, breathing shallowly, as if the air around her was poisoned.

Scully shook her head in anger. _Sonofabitch_.

"Hello," three voices answered in unison when Scully dialed her new prepaid.

"What've you found?" She heard two clicks as two of the Gunmen hung up.

"Nothin' much, yet," Frohike answered. "There were no matches on the prints we lifted off the clipboard. We're at a buddy's right now, waiting on the DNA results. It gonna be a while."

"Okay," Scully said, not surprised. "Call this number when you get something."

* * *

_State Department_

_May 8th_

_12:05pm_

* * *

"We found her," the tech said triumphantly.

Davidson nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Let's wait until dark, lure her out, and then go in and search the place. If we find the stuff, we'll keep her alive."

* * *

_Undisclosed location_

_May 8th_

_12:32pm_

The man lounged in the very last booth, listening unconcernedly to the babble of the sports fans all around him. His right hand nursed a beer; long fingers wiped the bottle clean of the sheen of condensation. His left hand rested on the seatback, plastic, immobile, like the hand of a Christmas doll.

He took a long drink, interrupted by a ringing cell.

He listened as if indulging a child, his expression bored. He hung up without a word.

Alex Krycek stood up gracefully, sinuous muscles rippling beneath his black garments. He'll play their games. But only by his own rules.

* * *

A/N: _The cell phone has become a disease, hasn't it? _


End file.
